


The Norwood Bewilderment

by Long_Time_QT



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual John, Asexuality, Brief Sarah/John, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Only a little involved, Romantic Fluff, Set Early Series Two, Story: The Adventure of the Norwood Builder, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Long_Time_QT/pseuds/Long_Time_QT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was strangely quiet for the cab ride home, and John wasn’t about to break the oppressive silence before they reached the privacy of their own flat. Instead, he went over the moment in his head, playing it on repeat. There was no mistaking it. They had definitely and irrefutably kissed. Or rather, Sherlock had kissed John. But it was a kiss nonetheless. A sudden, passionate, heat-of-the-moment kiss. </p><p>And he’d liked it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Norwood Bewilderment

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm kind of in love with Ace John, but there seems to be a distinct lack of fics. Now of course, this is just one representation of asexuality, everyone is different. 
> 
> Comments are loved and appreciated!

“Really Lestrade? Are you deliberately being this obtuse or are you really so incompetent?”

“Sherlock, there’s nothing we can do! Without solid evidence to the contrary, our hands are tied.”

John watched the DI run a hand down his face, as he often did when he was frustrated with the world’s only consulting detective, and Sally shook her head in irritation. The rest of the yarders attempted to look busy, but John caught the eyes of several sneaking by the open door of Lestrade’s office to listen in on the argument. This had been a trying case for everyone, Sherlock included.

All evidence pointed to the suspect in custody, the man who had all but burst down the door to 221b to plead his innocence. Security cameras caught him leaving Jonas Oldacre’s estate within an hour of the cleaners discovering the study in shambles. His bloodied fingerprint was found on the door of Oldacre’s home. His phone was found at the scene. And, most damning, the back shed had been completely burned down with the unrecognizable form of a man found inside. In the simplest terms, John McFarlane was guaranteed to be found guilty of the murder. Sherlock however, believed otherwise.

 “A man’s life is at stake!”

Sally snorted, “Never seemed to bother you before.”

“Donovan, please,” Lestrade chastised, growing increasingly irate as time went on, “now is not the time.”

Sally rolled her eyes and left the room, making a beeline towards the coffee machine. John vaguely wondered what time it was as he picked up the file pertaining to the case. Sherlock was right, there had to be something to prove the man’s innocence. John knew the eyes of a killer. Seen them on the battlefield, both in Afghanistan and London. McFarlane was not the murderer. Sherlock continued his tirade.

“Lestrade, you know as well as I do that I am never wrong. The sooner you take my word as law, the sooner we can save this man from a life of imprisonment for a crime he didn’t commit.”

John flipped the page over and furrowed his brow as he read. Lestrade fought back.

“Yea, well there’s another law I’m obligated to listen to and it’s not that of a man who thinks he’s above it all. Prove McFarlane’s innocence, or a poor woman will be left mourning the fact that her only son is a bloody murderer.”

“Sherlock–“

“What, John,” Sherlock asked spinning on his heel to face his companion. “You want to add to Lestrade’s overly sentimental case?” John shook his head as he double-checked the page.

“These are the dimensions for Oldacre’s house, right?”

“Brilliant, you’ve finally caught yourself up.”

“No, hang on. Look,” John held out the papers for Sherlock to see, pointing at various notes on the pages, “the dimensions of the upstairs are off. By a good few metres, I’d say. It’s not much, but maybe–”

Sherlock yanked the file out of John’s hands and read it over, a radiant smile chasing away countless hours of frustration.           

“Oh,” he said in revelation, triumph written in the lines of his face “Oh!” He grabbed John by the shoulders, papers still grasped in one hand. John nearly toppled over when Sherlock began to spin with him in the confines of the office. “Oh, this is brilliant! Brilliant! John you are–”

Everything stopped. The spinning. The investigation. The beating of John’s heart. All just stopped. What was it Sherlock said about impossibility? He seemed to bring it up often enough but the words were blanking. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be true, though, because Sherlock’s lips pressed against his was impossible. Yet, here they were. In the middle of Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes was kissing him. And it was _fantastic._

After what could have been either seconds or hours, Sherlock stiffened and violently pushed away from John, leaving him wide-eyed, stumbling, and confused as his pulse thrummed in his chest and over his skin.

Sherlock scanned John’s face as they recovered their breath, clearly search for something. Unsure, John found he couldn’t do more than let out an uneasy sigh and blink up at his friend. He should say something. Should he? He’d barely made a decision before the flicker of fear John caught in Sherlock’s eyes immediately gave way to an almost robotic emotionlessness as the detective spun around to point a gloved finger at Lestrade.

“Get a team out to Jonas Oldacre’s house” Sherlock directed, and he resolutely ignored John as he started to leave the room, “I’ll get you all the evidence you need to rid John McFarlane of any blame.” His coat flicked out of sight and the two remaining stood in a stunned silence. Lestrade looked as though he’d just seen, well, what he’d just seen. John half expected him to burst into a stream of ‘what the bloody hell was that?’ but instead the DI let his shoulders sag as he sighed in defeat.

“Right,” he said in exasperation, “Best, er… best get a move on, yea?”

 ***

The case was solved with very little fanfare. Setting off the fire alarms caused Oldacre to reveal himself from his hiding place behind a false wall. His scheme to get revenge on his ex lover by framing her son for murder then flee the country with a new name and the money he embezzled from his company was effectively put to an end. In an ironic turn, Oldacre was now set to face the same fate he tried to push on McFarlane, as the body in the fire had been determined to be a homeless man who frequented Oldacre's home.

The case was over, all wrapped up with a neat little bow. Now only one mystery remained. What the hell happened back at the Yard?

Sherlock was strangely quiet for the cab ride home, and John wasn’t about to break the oppressive silence before they reached the privacy of their own flat. Instead, he went over the moment in his head, playing it on repeat. There was no mistaking it. They had definitely and irrefutably kissed. Or rather, Sherlock had kissed John. But it was a kiss nonetheless. A sudden, passionate, heat-of-the-moment kiss. And he’d _liked_ it.

John glanced carefully at Sherlock in time to catch him quickly avert his gaze. What could be going on in that head of his? Outwardly, he seemed as cold and distant as ever, but with just a hint of something in the eyes. The frantic, nervous way he kept watching and not watching John’s movements, both in the reflective surface of the window and the physical presence beside him, was the only hint at something stirring in the detective’s mind.

Sherlock all but leapt from the cab as it pulled up to 221b, leaving John alone. It was this that pushed John from confused amazement to irritation. The man was clearly intent on avoiding the issue but that just wasn’t going to happen. This wasn’t an ambiguous touch of the hand or a spoken word with unspoken meaning. No, this was a completely clear, decisive action with very real implications. They were going to talk about it.

John hurriedly paid the cabbie and chased after the detective. He thumped up the stairs while Sherlock’s violin sang its quick paced melodies. John closed and locked the door behind him, turning pointedly to face Sherlock with his arms folded over his chest. Sherlock’s back was to him, but a look in the window showed the man’s eyes were screwed shut like he was trying to block out all but the music. An ambitious feat, given what John knew about how Sherlock’s mind worked. John cleared his throat.

“Sherlock.”

No change.

“ _Sherlock_.”

No change.

“Oh for god’s sake, SHERLOCK!”

The man finally stopped playing and relaxed his bow, but neither turned nor opened his eyes. John sighed at the silent response and tried more softly this time.

“Sherlock, what happened back at the Yard?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and spun on his heel, stalking off toward the kitchen with his violin still clasped in his lowered hand and the sourest scowl John had yet to see on the man’s face.

“You know my methods, John,” Sherlock bit as he stormed through the disaster area of a kitchen and all but ran down the hall to his room while John followed, “Though, I needn’t think you would have to be reminded to apply them when the answer is as painfully obvious as it is.”

He crossed the threshold and slammed the door, bolting it behind him. John glared at the hated plank of wood separating him from Sherlock and rapped at the door.

“Sherlock?” he paused to listen before knocking again. “Sherlock, open the door. We need to talk about this!” He paused. Silence again. He took a step back and crossed his arms.

“You know, avoiding the conversation is just childish. I hope you realize that.” 

Silence.

“You don’t even know what it is I want to say!”

The violin was playing again.

“Fine!” John threw his arms in the air and started walking back down the hall “Fine!”

He crossed back through to the main door.

“I’m going to Sarah’s,” he called out while he shrugged on his coat. “When you’re ready to discuss this like actual adult human beings, I’m all ears!” He waited. When the violin was the only answer he got, he huffed and stormed out the door.

 ***

The front door slammed and Sherlock stopped playing to listen to the sounds of the now empty flat. Satisfied that John had really gone, he laid the violin on his bed and unbolted the bedroom door. Carefully he opened it and crossed to the front room to look out the window to see John leaving. Oh god, John was leaving.

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and dropped onto the couch, curling his hands into fists around his hair. He’d been so careful, so very careful, but of course he had to go and ruin it. One cock-up, a single tender act in the midst of tensions run high, and all he worked to maintain was lost in a chaotic mess of sentiment.

He’d shown his hand there. John couldn’t possibly be so dense as to miss what the action revealed about his heart. With the wide-eyed staring and tense surprise in his features, there was no denying the panic the man clearly felt. There was nothing for it now. Sherlock could see what course the future would take. John was always so adamant about his sexuality, there was no way he’d continue living at 221b for fear of what others would think. Of all the faults he had, that was the most irrational, dull, and at the moment, the most heartbreaking.

There was the possibility he’d stay, try to stick to routine and ignore Sherlock’s affections. It would be awkward for a while, but they’d get back into the rhythm of things. He hoped for this far more preferable eventuality.

They’d watch telly, chase criminals, giggle at crime scenes. John would say something clever and Sherlock would laugh and regard him with fondness. A fondness John would now recognize as not strictly platonic, and he’d clear his throat awkwardly. Sherlock would stand by his side and John would take a half step away so that they were at a more respectable distance.  They’d be out of breath, having run halfway across London, and John would see the look on Sherlock’s face and know precisely the effect his flushed complexion and heavy breathing had on the detective. John’s smile would falter and he’d insist they report back to Lestrade or some other exceedingly dull task to cut the moment short.

Sherlock groaned and shook out his hair. A half shout and his hands were open in front of him. This simply would not do. He wouldn’t have his friendship with John compromised, especially not over something so infinitesimal as _feelings_.

He would fix this. He had to.

 ***

“Trouble with Sherlock again?” Sarah said when she answered the door, smiling softly.

“Getting just as bad as he is, you are,” John stepped into the house and Sarah closed the door behind him, “How did you know?” Sarah hooked her arm through his and led him to the sitting room.

“Why else do you come ‘round past midnight?” They sat down on the sofa and Sarah wrapped her fingers around John’s hand. “Well? What happened?” John launched into explanation of what happened, starting from the moment McFarlane burst into their flat to the moment John showed up on Sarah’s front step.

“Wow,” Sarah gaped, “seems like you have quite the blog entry there.”

“Yea,” John breathed, “yea, that’s a bit of an understatement.”

“So?”

“So…?”

“So what are you going to do?” Sarah asked, eyes uncertain.

John shook his head. How could he possibly know what he was going to do?

“I dunno. It’s not exactly like he’s exactly willing to talk about it. Shut me out before I could get more than a word in edgewise and refused to say anything himself. I really am at a loss for what to do next.”

“Right,” Sarah nodded. “Listen, John, I think we should end this, whatever it is we have.”

To say John was taken aback was even more an understatement than saying John’s story was ‘quite the blog entry’.

“What? Why?”

“John,” Sarah began gently, “I care about you, and I know you care about me too. But I see how you and him are, and you did say you suspect that he’s like you. Might as well find out. You opened up to me, why not him?”

“Sarah–“

“Think about it. When it comes to your heart, can I really compete with Sherlock Holmes?”

The words on John’s tongue died as the words sunk in. Short answer, no. No one could compete with Sherlock Holmes. The long story was way more complicated. Things with Sarah were going so well. He could be more himself with her than with anyone. Anyone except Sherlock.

“There,” Sarah said, apparently taking John’s silence as confirmation. “Just promise that you’ll text me. One way or another, I mean. I don’t want to be waiting for someone who isn’t coming back.”

John nodded, “Thanks, Sarah. You truly are amazing.”

“I am good, aren’t I?” Sarah laughed, smile not quite reaching her eyes. “And we can always be friends. Or at least, co-workers who make the break room uncomfortable with their unrequited unresolved sexual tension.”

John laughed and gripped her hand, “I mean it, thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Sarah stood up, eyes slightly more watery than they had been and her hand sliding out of John’s, “Right, so do you need to crash here for the night, er, rest of the morning I should say? My couch is always open.”

John grinned up at her, hoping to convey how sorry he was and how much he appreciated her good nature in this whole thing.

“You’re a saint, you are.”

“Hmm,” Sarah hummed in agreement, “I’ll get you a blanket.”

*** 

When John returned to the flat the next morning, he found it in a state he had never seen and was completely unprepared for. It was actually tidy. Well, mostly tidy.  Papers had all been sloppily stacked up and organized, books had been crammed back onto shelves, and experiments cleaned up with nary a questionably toxic substance to be seen. For a moment, John thought he’d wandered into the wrong building, but this was definitely 221b Baker Street.

“Sherlock?” he called out, giving a cursory glance to the hastily dusted shelves and the unevenly arranged sofa pillows.  “Sherlock, what’s happened to the flat?”

He rounded into the kitchen to see Sherlock putting away dishes, and looking very much like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. There was a moment of quiet as they watched each other awkwardly.

“You’re back,” Sherlock said carefully, closing the cupboard door gently.

“Of course I am,” John said, still a little unnerved by Sherlock’s sudden call to domesticity, “Thought you could do with some help with the washing.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched with a hidden smile and god did John miss those lips already.

“A bit late for that,” Sherlock gestured toward the empty sink, “Already taken care of.”

“Right,” John nodded, “Yea, what’s this about? You don’t do cleaning.”

“I erm,” Sherlock looked sheepish, holding his hands at his sides and worrying his lips before speaking again, “I wanted to apologize. For last night. For that… _thing_ that er, that happened.”

John crossed his arms, “You’re trying to apologize for kissing me?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Er, yes.”

“By tidying up the flat.”

“… Yes.”

Awkward silence filled the air between them, John trying to process exactly how kissing him translated into cleaning the flat and Sherlock standing there looking like he was preparing to be scolded. Finally Sherlock quirked an eyebrow with an uneasy smile, “Is it working?”

John laughed, surveying Sherlock’s progress. The man _really_ didn’t do cleaning, but he did try. He met Sherlock’s eyes again and shook his head with a smile, “No.”

“No?” Sherlock’s face fell and his brows drew together.

“No,” John confirmed, taking casual steps towards Sherlock, “It’s not working because you have nothing to apologize for.”

He stopped just in front of Sherlock, close in a way that was too intimate for ‘just friends’. Confusion and hope bloomed in the detective’s eyes, though he tried to remain sceptical.

“You aren’t angry?” he asked cautiously.

“No.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he hesitated, “You went to Sarah’s.”

“Well it’s not like you were talking to me about it,” John said, not without heat, “I had to speak to someone.”

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded, followed with a sigh, “Well, I suppose she managed to wash away my transgression with one of her own then. After all, why should I apologize for something that’s already been forgotten?”

“Actually,” John said, hands opening and closing with his nerves, “we ended things.”

Now that took Sherlock by surprise.

“Oh.”

“Yea, erm, we decided that it was best if we take a break. See other people. Explore… new avenues.”

Sherlock stood staring at John, apparently torn between disbelief and joy, before schooling his features into a nonchalant mask, “Well, yes, that seems to be for the best. Your relationship with her was doomed from the start. Your taste in women is frightfully mundane, John.”

“Oh, shut up,” John laughed, just staring up at Sherlock. They were quiet for a while, just smiling. Finally Sherlock cleared his throat.

“So erm, I think this is the part where we do something. While standing around like cheerful idiots is all well and good, it’s bound to get very dull very quickly.”

“Right,” John nodded. God, this was more awkward than he anticipated, “Sorry, I’m not exactly sure how to—I mean, I’ve never—this is just all so—sorry.” Sherlock nodded, hesitantly taking one of John’s hands in his.

“We could… try kissing again?”

John smiled, reaching his other hand up to rest against the back of Sherlock’s neck as he leaned up to oblige. This was much softer, more tentative than the one at the Yard, but oh god, it was just as fantastic. The kiss deepened, and Sherlock’s hand slid out of John’s to that both of his arms could embrace him. John wrapped his now free arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him closer.

Finally Sherlock broke the kiss and rested his forehead against John’s. They were both slightly breathless and close to laughing in exhilaration.

“So,” Sherlock breathed, “are we together now?”

“Oh god yes.”

 ***

They sat curled together on the sofa and John’s stomach did not just back flips, but an entire gymnastics routine. This all still seemed surreal. Here he was, sitting in 221b like it was any normal day, with Sherlock Holmes as his boyfriend. It was so many things at once. Amazing, confusing, terrifying, wonderful… uncertain.

After so long of living under the “heterosexual label”, John really wasn’t sure how this relationship would factor into other people’s view of him. He thought of every way this could end up wrong. People would ask questions. People would stare. People would do and say so many things he wasn’t sure he could handle. Apart from that, Sherlock himself was a volatile mix of chaos and unpredictability. What if he got bored? What if he wanted more out of the relationship than John wanted to give? What if he decided he’d made a mistake? The reputation John worked so hard to maintain could all well be shot, and then where would he be?

“Could you think any more loudly?” Sherlock drawled in a way that could have been teasing if not for the wary edge to it. Clearly Sherlock was still adjusting to their new relationship status as well.

“Oh, er,” John came back to himself, “sorry, I just. This is a new thing and I, I think we need to be sure we’re on the same page is all.” Sherlock’s brows drew together and he tilted his head curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean how do we stand? I know we’re, y’know, together now, but I really feel like we need to talk about it. You know, what are our boundaries? Are we telling anyone? Where do we go from here?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, studying John’s features, “You don’t want people to know about us?”

“No, I mean, no, that’s not it,” John said, adjusting his position so that he was facing Sherlock more directly, “I mean, I don’t want to be in a secret relationship. I just—I think we should wait a while before telling people. I still need to get my head around the fact that I’m, well, that I’m dating you now.”

“That you’re dating a man?”

“… Yes.”

Sherlock nodded, thankfully understanding, “That sounds reasonable. You have spent your whole life concealing your latent bisexuality, quite well I’d say considering it slipped by me completely, though Mrs. Hudson seemed to pick up on it. It makes sense that you’d need time to process the data.“

“That’s er,” John began delicately, “that’s something else I wanted to… discuss.” Sherlock looked at him curiously, silently encouraging John to continue.

“I,” John took a deep breath, _come on Watson_ , “I’m not… bisexual.” Sherlock jerked in surprise and scrutinized John further.

 “Still not gay either,” John clarified.

“But you’re not straight,” Sherlock said carefully, “Otherwise, why break up with your girlfriend for a man?”

“No,“ John hedged, his nerves almost getting the better of him. God this was so much easier when he’d finally admitted things to Sarah, he hadn’t cared as much then, “I’m not anything, I don’t think.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, “How can you not be anything?”

“I… Sherlock, I want this relationship to work. I couldn’t bear losing you if things went wrong because I wasn’t upfront, so I need to be honest with you,” he took another steadying breath, exhaling slowly, “I don’t… I don’t feel like other people feel. Not in a physical sense.”

“You’re impotent?”

“No,” John defended, “no, I just. I don’t find people attractive. In a sexual way I mean.” There was a long, stretching silence wherein Sherlock stared quizzically into John’s apprehensive eyes. When it felt like John would crack under the anticipation, Sherlock spoke.

“You don’t experience sexual attraction.” Not a bad place to start.

“Pretty much.”

“But you want to date me.”

“I think that bit was obvious.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, processing the information and apparently coming up at a loss for comparing what John had said against his mental schema for human sexuality. He was accommodating the new information instead.

“Interesting,” he tented his fingers and leaned back against the sofa, “So you want to date me despite not finding me attractive. Not a typical behavioural pattern, most people tend to avoid choosing mates they’re not attracted to.”

“I am attracted to you,” John said, earning back Sherlock’s full attention, “Romantically.” Sherlock simply stared.

“But you have had sex.”

“Well, yes,” John admitted, “Didn’t particularly enjoy the experiences, mind, but it’s what was expected. Sometimes it was nice.”

Sherlock continued to stare to the point where John felt insecurity ebb and flow around him. It wasn’t that the man looked judgmental or disappointed or even angry, he was just staring in a way that John couldn’t decipher the meaning of.

“Fine,” Sherlock finally said. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“Fine?”

“Like you said,” Sherlock smiled as he took John’s hand in his, “it’s all fine.”

John could have flown to the stars with the feelings emanating in his chest. Instead, he settled for a smile.


End file.
